


Waiting Game

by FleetingDesires



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM themes, Developing Relationship, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Heavy Angst, M/M, Minor Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes, Road to Holmescest, Sapiosexual!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27907192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetingDesires/pseuds/FleetingDesires
Summary: You'll find somebody else one day. Someone better. More suitable.I won't. That person does not exist. You'll see. I'll prove it to you.Or, Sherlock uses The Woman to get to Mycroft.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes (mentioned), Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 20
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some lines stolen from the episode; obviously I claim no copyright over it, or really any of it.

_"Don't be alarmed, it's to do with sex."_

_"Sex doesn't alarm me."_

_"How would you know?"_

Sherlock flashed Mycroft a look of hurt and resentment, a veritable litany of words and old arguments flitting unbidden and unspoken between them in a split second.

_No._

_We shouldn't._

_It's too dangerous._

_You'll find somebody else one day. Someone better. More suitable._

_Yes._

_I want you._

_Please._

_I won't. That person does not exist. You'll see. I'll prove it to you._

That had been six years ago, and five before that convincing his brother that he wanted him in every way one person could have another. So, eleven years of waiting for Mycroft to come around to his point of view and see that there was no point in resisting the pull they had on each other. That if his brashness would not work, he would use the passage of time to convince Mycroft that he would never want anybody else.

Eleven years of sitting across tables, of waiting and the interminable frustration of longing, and his brother would use it against him? Yes, he had turned up to Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet – but surely this was a punishment that did not fit the crime.

He barely restrained himself from lashing out at Mycroft then and there, flicking through the photographs of Irene Adler with deliberate motions. There was nothing, absolutely no insight to be gained from what is clearly a crafted public persona. Though, a plan was forming in his mind. Mycroft had just crossed a line and it deserved retaliation.

The plan further solidified when Irene Adler – or was she The Woman, now? – introduced herself without a stitch on.

"Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?" Before he could formulate a response, John entered the room, banishing the moment temporarily.

Begrudgingly, he found himself admiring her tenacity, and the rare spark of intelligence behind those bright eyes and red lips. No one could deny her pure aesthetic beauty, though he was intrigued more by what lived in her skull than the rest of her.

So it was, that after a week of moans issuing from his phone, and several invitations to dinner, he found himself in her parlour once again, this time sans a certain army doctor.

"What is it you want, Sherlock?" Irene crossed her legs elegantly, eyeing him closely from an armchair.

 _My brother. But in lieu of that…_ "I'd like to engage you for your professional services. I have no limits that I am aware of, expect that I do not wish to be penetrated. Everything else is on the table for the moment, but to keep in mind that I have no experience with sexual sadomasochism. You may take your pictures if you wish. In fact, I would insist upon it."

She inclined her head curiously. "Well, that's certainly a novel request. My clients usually ask the exact opposite. Might I ask why?"

"No."

"Very well. And do you want copies of the photographs?"

Sherlock considered this for a moment. Finally, he said no, with a firm shake of his head.

"Alright then." She rose from her seat, gliding over to Sherlock and extended a hand towards him. "Come along now. There is so much I have to teach you, Sherlock."

He took it, and allowed her to lead him deeper into her house.

It might have been the only time, but it wasn't. Even though he started it out of spite, he had found a strange, maybe perverse sort of catharsis from their assignations. She had never come close to figuring out why he subjected himself to her domination, to her sadism, but she knew that this provided some sort of emotional release for a man constantly in denial of his feelings. She might have suspected that she was one of the only people on Earth that even came close to reading his heart. No matter how hard he tried, it was impossible for him not to show his pain when he inevitably entered subdrop, and after the first session, she knew to cater more time to ensure he was alright before she sent him home.

Then came Christmas, and Sherlock's world stopped for a moment when he opened a gift-wrapped box to find Irene's phone nestled within. After a brief conversation with Mycroft, Sherlock locked himself in his room for the rest of the night, staring at the screen on her phone.

_I AM_

___ __ __ ___

_LOCKED_

Three hours later, the side of his lip tilts up wryly as the phone is unlocked. _Oh, Mistress. You of all people should have known best not to get involved._ Sighing quietly, he leaned back on his bed, staring at the ceiling until the call came in from Mycroft.

Time to head to the morgue.

As her cold, lifeless body was revealed to his eyes, he forced himself to look only once and not to scream. He had had enough familiarity with it to know that it was undeniably hers, and not that of some other woman. _The_ Woman was dead. For all that she wasn't and could never be Mycroft, she was the only other one who had got a glimpse of the real Sherlock. Now that he had a taste of the numbness she provided, how could he go back to a time before? Now that he knew an inkling of how it felt to be comfortable enough with someone to just _be_ , how could he continue without it? The first is an easy enough problem; the second, he doubted he would find again. Not unless it was with Mycroft.

Sherlock spun on his heels, exiting the room abruptly. A few moments later, Mycroft joins him, silently offering a cigarette and lighting it for him. After waiting a few drags, he said, "How did you know she was dead?"

"She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up." Sherlock casually flicked some ash to the ground.

"Where is this item now?"

Instead of responding to his question, Sherlock blew out another plume of smoke. "This is low tar."

"Well, you barely knew her."

Sherlock laughed wryly. He retrieved The Woman's phone from his coat pocket, and unlocked it in clear view of Mycroft.

_I AM_

_S_ _H_ _E_ _R_

_LOCKED_

Sherlock looked up to meet his eyes for a moment, pressing the unlocked phone to his brother's chest. Turning away, he observed a family beyond a set of glass doors, and continued to smoke. He had just tossed the fag-end to the ground when he heard a sharp intake of breath. _Jackpot. He's found the photographs._

He inclined his head slightly towards the family. "Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?"

"All lives end. All hearts are broken." Mycroft looks at him, a stricken expression on his face even as he recites by rote. "Caring is not an advantage."

"A lesson she should have learned. Not that it would have made an ounce of difference. It certainly has done nothing for me."

Mycroft was silent for a moment. "Then why…?"

"For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Did you think I'd let your little remark that day at the palace go unanswered?" His gaze sharpened at the look on Mycroft's face. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft," he said sarcastically, as he walked out of the morgue.


	2. Chapter 2

He managed to hold it together until he reached his bedroom, pausing only to spare John a glance before he locked himself in. He buried his hands in his hair as tugged painfully at it; the physical pain acted as a soother against his emotional turmoil.

He waited until he heard John go to bed, and waited an hour more before he wiped the tears off his face and went into the living room. He looked around at the clutter of his life. _What is it all for?_ No matter how much information he stuffed into his mind, it was all just a distraction.

Picking up his violin, he plucked at it listlessly for a few moments before he raised his bow to it. He played most of the _Andante_ of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto before stopping with a sharp note. No, somehow it wasn't quite what he wanted. Gathering some pieces of blank sheet paper, he stationed himself at the window and began to compose.

Over the next few days, he filled the flat with the plaintive tunes of his violin, ignoring John and Mrs Hudson hovering about him, checking in with him, ignoring food and sleep until he had no choice but to attend to his transport. He was growing more despondent by the day, even as he continued to wait. It was surprising how little tolerance he now had for it, considering he had been waiting for a very long time already, and matters didn't seem to be about to change.

John had finally left the apartment on the evening of New Year's Eve, after Sherlock had gotten sick of his hovering and snapped out that he didn't need a babysitter.

Much later that night, Sherlock was on his second playthrough of the piece he had completed only an hour earlier, when, to his surprise, he saw his brother step out of a London cab. Even more shocking was the fact that he was bereft of his usual suit of armour, having opted instead for a warm sweater over a collared shirt and dark jeans, sporting hints of days-old beard growth on his cheek.

Mycroft must have heard his violin, for he stopped on the street and looked up, unerringly finding Sherlock framed in his window. Sherlock met his eyes and continued to play the piece in it entirety, speaking to him through its stanzas and diminuendos, the notes threading a story of hurt and frustration and loss.

They continued to look for each other for several long moments after the piece had ended, until Sherlock moved to lower his violin. At that, Mycroft moved towards the door of 221B.

Though he hadn't intended to, he turned towards the door with a look of surprise as he realised Mycroft was ascending the stairs two at a time. When Mycroft finally came into view, he asked acerbically, "To what do I owe this visit?"

"I…" Mycroft looked around stupidly, before entering the flat and closing the door with a loud _click_ behind him. "I came here to apologise, Sherlock."

"Really? What for?"

"For hurting you that day at the Palace. It was unkind of me to have said it, no matter how annoyed I was. I'm truly sorry."

"Is that it? You can leave now." Sherlock turned around again, and started to play an irritatingly jaunty tune.

"No, I– Would you stop playing that?" Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock's only response was to play louder, even as he heard Mycroft take a few steps towards him.

"Please, Sherlock. I just want to talk to you."

"About what?" He met Mycroft with eyes blazing, the violin forgotten. "What more could you possibly want from me?"

"I want–" Mycroft broke off, running a hand across his face as he exhaled noisily. "First, I wanted to apologise for more than just that day. I'm sorry for it all, Sherlock. Everything. I didn't know, couldn't have known how I've hurt you. All I ever wanted was to protect you."

"Your apologies butter no parsnips, Mycroft. I've been beyond protecting for some time, and yet you've persisted."

"It hasn't exactly been a walk in the park for me, either."

"If that's the case, you were the author of your own suffering. Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?"

Mycroft, agitated, paced a few steps, then to Sherlock's utter shock, he dropped to his knees in front of him, hands on his knees, head bowed. Sherlock took a step back as he recognised the position, his heart starting to pound furiously in his ears.

His eyes flew up suddenly as the front door opened. "Oo-oo, Sherlock– Oh, my." Nobody breathed for a moment.

"Not now, Mrs Hudson," he finally growled, his eyes flitting back to his brother who had still not moved an inch.

"Well, yes, I thought you might want some company to ring in the new year, but I see you've already got it. I'll go." She closed the door softly behind her as she left, footsteps retreating down the stairs.

Sherlock studied Mycroft for several long moments before he walked forward, stepping into his field of vision. He thought of how The Woman would have acted.

"Speak," he ordered.

"I've been a coward and a fool. As the years went on it simply became easier to convince myself that you could do without me, than to admit that I couldn't do without you. When I saw those photographs," Mycroft's voice broke, "it became impossible to keep lying to myself. I was jealous and hurt, where I had no right to be either. But seeing your pain hurt far more than that. I'm so sorry, brother mine. I don't want to hurt you anymore."

Mutely, Sherlock watched as a few stray teardrops hit the floor. Finally, he said, "Despite being the one on the floor, you are the only one who has always had the power to change that."

Mycroft shook his head slowly. "No, I'm giving it to you. I deliver myself into your hands, Sherlock. Hurt me, please me, or whatever your wish – I'll be yours," he ended on a whisper.

Sherlock stood rooted to the ground. Of all the ways he had ever dreamed of finally having Mycroft for himself, this was not one of them. On a breath, he tentatively reached out to run his hand over Mycroft hair, and watched his eyes as they fluttered close. Mycroft shivered as Sherlock caressed the nape of his neck, his thumb tripping over the unsteady beat of his pulse.

Finally, he moved it towards the front to grasp Mycroft by his chin, tilting it up firmly to meet his eyes. "On your feet then, brother mine. I don't want or need such submission." Sherlock watched as he obeyed, standing before him. "Whatever I wish, Mycroft?" He asked, closing what gap there was between them, his gaze flitting between his eyes and his lips.

"Carte blanche," Mycroft had time to murmur, before Sherlock's lips crashed into his. Mycroft's hands flew to Sherlock's waist as he kissed back fervently, ceding control to Sherlock as he plundered his mouth, tangling their tongues together. He groaned as his back hit the door, one leg coming up to entwine with Sherlock's and allow him better access to grind their bodies together. He gasped into Sherlock as he felt cold hands on the warmed skin of his torso, before he gripped Sherlock's hair and tugged his head roughly away from him. "We should go slower," he gasped out, even as his cock throbbed within its confines against Sherlock's hip.

Sherlock ground his hips in response. "It's been 11 years, and about to be 12. I'm done with slow."

"I know, I know," he murmured, unable to resist the allure of the bare skin on Sherlock's neck, biting and sucking at it for a few moments before he regained his senses once more, banging the back of his head roughly against the door in an effort to knock some wits back into himself. "But not here, Sherlock. Your flatmate may be home at any moment and Mrs Hudson…" he trailed off meaningfully.

Sherlock whined softly as he dropped his head to Mycroft's shoulder. "Back to yours, then. Now. Just get a cab and wait for me." He stole another kiss before shoving Mycroft out the door, throwing his coat over himself in a hurry.

He knocked impatiently on Mrs Hudson's door. "Mrs Hudson!" He yelled.

"Yes, what is it?" She opened the door, looking harried. Upon taking him in however, it morphed into surprise. "Are you quite alright?"

"Never been better. I'll be out with Mycroft. Could you let John know?" After a beat, he added, "Also, if you could keep what you saw earlier to yourself, I'd be eternally grateful."

"Well, alright," Mrs Hudson stuttered. "You and Mycroft alright, then?"

"As I said, never been better. Thanks, Mrs Hudson, you're a gem. Happy New Year." He leaned in for a quick kiss on her cheek before he flew out the door, leaving her standing in her doorway looking bewildered. Out in nothing but his pyjamas and coat in this weather? And what was all that upstairs about, anyway? She shook her head as she closed her door. She never knew what was going on in that funny old head of Sherlock's.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I live for your comments and kudos. Love you all! xx


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